"I am going away, Mrs. Bell," said Miss Hart.
"Oh, my dear!" Mrs. Bell's full-moon face turned absolutely pale. "Going away, my love!" she said. She thought of her private hoard, not nearly large enough, and her voice became absolutely pathetic. "Going away, Miss Hart? I'm truly grieved to hear it. And haven't I made you comfortable enough, my poor dear?"
"Oh, you misunderstand me, Mrs. Bell. I am going away, but only for a little—just for a day or two. I don't know exactly when I shall be back, but probably in a day or two. I am going by the early train, and I tapped at your door to say good-bye."
Then Mrs. Bell in her delight and joy kissed Miss Hart, who soon afterwards left the house.
She walked to the station, the hour was early, and there was no special person about. She took a first-class ticket to a small town about thirty miles away, and immediately afterwards her train came up.
During the greater part of her journey Miss Hart had the compartment to herself. By-and-bye fellow-passengers got in, who almost started back at the sight of the pale face of the girl, who sat with her veil thrown back, looking straight out of the open window.
There was a strange expression on her face; her brows were slightly drawn together, and the curves of her lips had a, weary and pathetic droop. She had taken off her gloves, and now and then she clasped her slender white hands together with a nervous, passionate tension. Then the look in her eyes became almost ugly, and her fellow passengers were uncomfortable as they watched her.
At the little country town of West Brockley, Miss Hart alighted. She had brought all her luggage in a small handbag, and now she walked to her destination. It was in the outskirts of the little town, and amongst a row of poor houses. She stopped at one of these, and entered by the open door. A woman met her in the passage.
"Is Mr. Hart within?"
"I don't know, madam, I'll inquire."
"No, don't do that. I'll go to him myself. He's at the top of the house, of course, as usual?"
"Why, as usual, madam? Mr. Hart has never been my lodger before."
"I know his ways. He invariably seeks the top."
"From no prejudice, madam. He seems a very quiet gentleman."
"Exactly. Treasure him, he is a valuable lodger. Now let me pass, please. I am going to seek him."
"Perhaps I had better tell him first, young lady."
"I am his grandchild. It is all right. Let me pass."
She brushed the woman aside, and flew lightly up the stairs. She knocked at the door of the top attic, but followed her knock into the room before any one had made response from within.
Old Hart was, as usual, messing over some cooking. He stopped it when he saw Josephine, and an iron spoon which he held in his hand clattered noisily to the floor.
"Now, Nina, what is the matter?"
"I am going to spend the day with you, Granddad, and probably the night as well. You can give me a bed in a corner of this delightful sitting-room. Is that breakfast? I wish you would serve it up; I am starving."
"It's a very good breakfast, little Nina. Fried rabbit, done after a new method. Bacon and eggs to follow, with a sauce of port wine. Olives and sour claret for dessert. I know your taste, witch."
"I love olives," said Nina. "Sit at the table, Grand-dad, and let us begin. By the way, when did you shave last?"
"Ha—ha, who have I to shave for now, my pretty Nina? Nobody cares for the old man, nobody looks at him with eyes of admiration. Why should he waste his money and his time over the barbarous rite of shaving? Nature has her way with the old man now, sweet witch."
"Nature doesn't improve you, Grand-dad. You require the refining touches of art. Your beard is unkempt, your hair too long. You shall visit the barber after we have concluded our meal. It is distressing to mankind in general to behold a spectacle like you. You owe a duty to the world at large. You must visit the barber."
"Chut—chut! What a witch it is! Why didn't it stay at home, and not worry the old man?"
"Serve up the breakfast, Grand-dad, and believe in the salutary nature of your granddaughter's visitations."
The two sat down to their meal, and both ate for a time in unbroken silence. After his third glass of sour claret, the old man spoke:
"How are you, Nina? You don't look up to much?"
"Would you be up to much if a fever consumed you day and night? Feel my hand, Grand-dad."
The old man gripped the slender fingers, then flung them away.
"Good God! they burn!" he said. "Don't touch me, witch. You may have contracted something catching."
"No, nothing that the old man can catch. Now, let us be pleasant, and enjoy the day together."
"We can't. I am going to move to-day."
"You must stay here to-day; you can move tomorrow."
"Witch, how you order me. I won't be ordered. I shall move to-day."
"You have no idea of moving, either to-day or to-morrow. Don't talk nonsense. You have had your breakfast. I will wash the things up. Go and visit the barber."
The old man muttered and mumbled. Finally he tied a large crimson scarf in a loose knot round his throat, shoved a soft felt hat on his head, and donning a greasy and very old brown velvet cloak, he prepared to go out.
"It's a rare nuisance," he said; "I meant to try some Chinese cooking for dinner; something with a subtle aroma, delicate, and hard to obtain. You boil the leeks for so many hours, and catch the essence in a distiller. Bah! you care nothing for eating, witch."
"I like some of your dishes very well, Granddad, but I prefer cleanliness to luxury. Now, go out and get shaved."
"It will cost me sixpence."
"Sixpence well spent. Don't talk any more; go!"
He blew her a kiss, half of derision, half of pride, and shambled downstairs. A crowd of little boys followed him up the street; some pulled his cloak, some mocked him openly. He neither felt the pulls nor heard the words. He was absorbed in the thought of that delicious Chinese dinner which he could not now partake of to-day.
As soon as he was gone, Nina, too, ran downstairs. She went to a chemist's, and boldly asked for a small quantity of a certain drug.
"Have you a prescription?" the man inquired.
"No, but I understand the right proportions to take. Why do you hesitate? I am not asking for poison."
The man stared hard at the bright, queer face of his customer.
"The drug is not poison," he slowly repeated, "but taken in too large quantities it can inflict an injury. I will give it to you, but you must enter your name and address in this book."
Josephine laughed lightly, entered old Hart's address in the book, paid for her medicine, and departed. As soon as she got home she took out of a cupboard a decanter which contained a small portion of a very bright and clear wine. She mixed a little of the powder with the wine. It dissolved instantly, and did not disturb the rare amber of the liquid. The rest of the powder Nina threw into the fire, burning both paper and string.
When Hart came back, shaven and neat, his hair shortened, his long snow-white beard trimmed, he looked what he was—a strikingly handsome man. His grand-daughter possessed his regular features, but, although her eyes were as bright as his, they were not dark. She had black eyelashes and black brows, but the eyes themselves were peculiarly light.
Nina was in an excellent humor now. She helped her grandfather with his cooking, and by-and-by, as the day wore on, she tempted him to come for a stroll with her. She spoke very little of her present life, nor did he question her. He had a certain fondness for his grandchild, but it never rose to the extent of a genuine interest in her concerns. Of late she had been to him a valuable chattel—a trump-card, by which he could extract the good things of life out of another. With Nina he was powerful, without her he was a helpless and penniless old man. But he did not love Nina because of this. He was proud of her for what she brought him, proud of her because if he was lowly born she was not. But he loved her, after the slight fashion with which alone he could bestow love, because, notwithstanding that good birth, she also belonged to him—she was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. The ties of blood were strong with him, and because of these ties he loved her after his fashion.
The two came home presently and partook of supper together. Nina bought some figs and peaches, and they had quite a dainty meal. Nina herself prepared the board, and she put the decanter with the amber wine close to the old man. He ate and drank. He said the wine was good, and he helped himself twice to the sparkling contents of the decanter. "I feel in spirits to-night, Nina," he said, looking at his grandchild.
"Have a little more wine, Grand-dad," she said, in retort.
In spite of all her efforts, her voice had an anxious ring in it as she spoke. He looked at her keenly. He was as suspicious as man could be. He half-stretched out his hand to seize the decanter, then with a sly smile he replaced the stopper in the neck of the bottle.
"No, no, witch," he said. "This wine is rare and precious. It raises the spirit and warms the heart. I have not much more wine from so rare a vintage, and I'll keep what's in the bottle for another night, when you, pretty Nina, are far away, and the spirits of the old man fail him."
"Do," she said. "Keep the precious wine, you don't need it to-night."
Then she handed him his pipe, and after a time he became drowsy and went to bed.
Hart's bedroom was a small attic inside the larger one. He shut the door, looked round for the key, for he generally locked himself in, could not find it, and then, being very drowsy, undressed and went to bed.
Nina was to sleep on the sofa in the sitting-room. She lay down, took a novel out of her pocket, and tried to read. Her heart was beating hard, and that burning fever of unrest and longing which was consuming her very life, kept coursing madly through her veins.
"The fever is my wine," she muttered. "At first it supplies false strength, false cheer, false hope. Afterwards—afterwards—" a queer look came into her strange face—"I too, shall rest and sleep."
Profound stillness reigned in the next room. Nina softly rose, and going to the sideboard took out the decanter of wine, opened a window, and emptied it into the area below. She washed the decanter afterwards and then put it back into the sideboard.
There was not a sound in the inner room. Candle in hand, she opened the door and went in. She put the candle on the mantelpiece, and then going to the bed, bent over it and looked at the sleeper.
"Poor Grand-dad!" said the girl. She stooped and kissed the old man's forehead. "You have been good to me after your lights—it was not your fault that those lights were dim. Had you been an educated man, Grand-dad, you'd have educated me; and had you been a good man, you'd have taught me goodness; and a kind man, you'd have guarded your poor Nina. Was it your fault that you were ignorant—and wanting in goodness—and lacking in kindness? You did your best—, after your lights."
Then she stooped and kissed him again. He was heavy from the drug she had put into the wine, and did not stir. She slipped her hand softly under his pillow.
"Poor old man, I am taking away your trump-card," she said. She drew a thick letter, yellow with age, from under the pillow, put it into her pocket, and taking up the candle left the room.
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